


Sometimes They Come Home

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Blood and Gore, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost!Jim, Horror, M/M, Multi, goingbadly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim isn't happy about Sebastian's new partner. Too bad Jim is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes They Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goingbadly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/gifts).



> Inspired by Goingbadly's fantabulous artwork: http://goingbadly.tumblr.com/post/87889846896/go-away-jim-youre-dead-in-which-richard-is

 

 

 

It lacked heat.

Seb knew it was a lot to expect, too much to expect, yet he couldn’t help but miss that blood-rushing, heart-thumping, burn-a-hole-in-your-gut _passion_ he’d had with Jim. There was nothing like it—certainly not with the twin. The runner-up. The substitute. He had to admit, where the heat was gone, so too were the cuts and bruises, the broken ribs and emergency room visits—which Seb didn’t miss.

Much.

Mostly, he missed that look. The one that said, _I own you._ The one that would send him scrambling for his rifle or leaping towards the bed. The one that spelled sex and blood and fear, all at once.

Jim was gone, and with him the unpredictable fire. Richard was a mediocre replacement, but he was something.

He liked to shout the answers to quiz shows, lacking even the sense to look embarrassed when he got them wrong. He woke up early to cook breakfast, it never occurring to him to start a kitchen fire just for fun. He dressed like a secondary-school maths teacher and smelled of cheap drugstore soap. But he had that perfect Irish brogue, and when Seb was balls-deep in his arse, he screamed that same high-pitched squeal Bossman always had.

What he had with Richard … well, it was what he had.

He had the face, Jim’s face (even if Rich’s eyes lacked that mad gleam). He had a warm body to hold (even if it was a tad too malleable to feel right). He had a willing accomplice (even if Seb wasn’t entirely comfortable calling the shots).

And he had something else, something Jim had never given him: the impression he was wanted.

So Seb was willing to put up with the whelp, because every now and then the right kind of light would turn Rich’s dopey smile sinister or the half-wit would say something unexpectedly clever, and Seb could pretend—for a brief, beautiful moment—that he had his Jim back. He knew it was pathetic; he could just imagine how Jim would mock him. He would tear Sebastian to shreds. But given the choice between a second-rate stand-in and _nothing_ , Seb would take the knockoff any day.

It was fine, and mostly it worked.

Then one morning, he caught Jim’s face staring back at him from Richard’s reflection. 

The knockoff was brushing his teeth at the bathroom sink when Seb stepped out of the shower. Over Rich’s shoulder, there in the glass, Bossman smiled and flicked his fingers in a wave. Seb shouted his surprise and tripped backwards over the edge of the tub, cracking his head on tile.

He didn’t know how, but Seb was sure it was him. No optical illusion or distortion from the steam. This was _Jim._ Tailored charcoal suit, hollowed-out eyes, bloody ruin of a head. This was Jim the way he had looked on that rooftop, only a whole lot more menacing and a whole lot less dead.

Rich fluttered over, and Jim disappeared. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

It was still strange to hear _that_ tone in _that_ voice, a simpering kind of empathy Seb couldn’t imagine coming from Jim’s mouth. Head pounding, pride wounded, nerves rattled … Sebastian let his anger flare. 

“Fuck off. I’m fine.” 

He glanced back at the mirror. It was disturbing to realise he’d take Jim any way he could get him, even as a walking nightmare. But there was no grotesque apparition, only the back of Richard’s reflection, shoulders slumped and shivering.

“Sorry.” Rich hovered over the tub, toothbrush gripped in his hand like a lifeline. 

Seb hated how quick the man was to apologise. Hated that word: _sorry_. Hated knowing Jim had never once used it on him—not even the day Seb had stared down his scope and watched Jim eat his Beretta.

“Whatever.” Seb pulled himself up and wrapped a towel around his waist. “You’re dripping toothpaste.”

“Oh!” Rich scurried to the sink to spit and rinse.

How could two men sharing the same genes be so different? Had their personalities divided in utero the way their cells had? Did Jim claim all the things that had made him a mad genius? A brain full of uncorked acid and nails on a chalkboard, rusted gears and paving tar. While Jim sucked up brilliance and cruelty, did Richard curl into himself, growing pink toes and dreaming of elder down and dandelions?

Seb didn’t see Jim in the bathroom again, and he shrugged it off, blaming the vision on too little sleep or too much caffeine. It occurred to him he could be cracking up, and visions of white-padded cells scuttled through his mind. Perhaps the worst thing about that thought was how little it bothered him.

After a few weeks, Seb deemed the vision an aberration and stopped keeping tabs on every mirror he passed. Rich was, as always, a cheap patch over the hole Jim had left. But as time went on, he seemed less and less like a poorly made substitute, and more like an actual companion. Seb even found himself experiencing occasional bursts of affection for the whelp.

Seb liked how Rich slept the whole night through, curling himself around the larger man like a puppy in need of a snuggle. He liked Richard’s stupid puns and easy laugh. He liked not constantly having to watch his back, wondering when his partner might snap and try to slice off something important. Richard never snapped. Never flew into an uncontrollable rage. Never cut Seb with his words or his blades. And as much as this slow-growing attachment felt like a betrayal, Seb couldn’t help but melt under the persistent warmth of Rich’s affection.

Maybe that was why Jim came back a second time. Maybe he sensed Seb’s crumbling walls and simply refused to allow them to fall.

They were sharing a bath at the end of the day, a much-needed soak to ease the stress of a job gone wrong. It wasn’t the first time Seb had longed for Jim’s command of mission-planning and strategy; he was just thankful to have nothing worse than a few strained muscles and some extra bruises to show for his stupidity.

Jim and Rich might have been as different as brothers could be, but there was one thing that united them. Not murderous design. Not hunger for power and control. Not intellect or cruelty, inventiveness or perversion. Of all the ways Jim and his brother might be alike, it was an affinity for a shared soak that won out in the end. (Well, that, and a dogged affection for a certain scarred army-colonel-turned-mercenary.) Identical DNA, two men indistinguishable on a cellular level, and bathtime was where they intersected. Surely, there was some kind of womb metaphor there, but Seb couldn’t be arsed.

As the sun sank on another London day, Seb found himself in one of his favourite places: back against porcelain, knees jutting up out of the water, and the familiar press of Rich’s petite body tucked between his thighs. A quiet patch after the storm. It was nice. More tame than a soak with Jim, who was too restless to sit still for long and always managed to slosh half the water to the floor within seconds of entering the bath. Rich’s instincts were improving, and he didn’t ruin the moment by speaking—just tipped his head back onto Seb’s shoulder and closed his eyes, sighing in satisfaction.

Seb stroked through Richard’s wet tangle of hair, smoothing it back into a sleek helmet, the way Jim had worn it. He wondered how Rich might look in Westwood, and started outlining a job that might require him to put on a suit. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t change the man. But it wouldn’t hurt to play dress-up every now and then, would it? He just wanted a minute to fool himself, just a moment to pretend he had Jim back.

And then, in the rippled reflection of the bathwater, Jim _was_ back. Seb saw those empty eye sockets and that rictus grin, saw the blood seeping from his head in red ribbons, and he jerked violently. Rich stirred, startled.

“What’s wrong?”

Seb wasn’t making the same mistake twice; he wasn’t letting Jim float away—so he kept his eyes fixed on the figure. Jim was flat and shimmering, like a picture floating on the surface of the water. His face rippled as quiet waves rebounded against the tub. In his periphery, he saw Rich turn his head. He looked up at Seb with such un-rattled ease, it couldn’t be an act: the man saw nothing in that bath that shouldn’t be there.

“Seb? What is it?”

Seb ignored him and sucked in a sharp breath as Jim started to move. His arms came first, pulling out of the water like a reflection stepping from a mirror—his body suddenly more whole and real. He grasped the edges of the tub and lifted himself upright, but the water didn’t slosh the way it should have, filling in the empty spaces he left behind. His hair was combed back, slick but not dripping. His suit looked bone dry, save for a glistening stream of blood running from the back of his head down his shoulder. His legs were hidden from view, though by all rights, they should be tangled up with his and Richard’s. Seb couldn’t make sense of any of it—well, except to start believing all those ghost stories he’d heard as a kid.

Water tipped over the sides of the tub as Rich made a cramped turn. “Are you okay?”

Two sets of eyes watched him, but Seb only cared about the pair carved out of Jim’s ruined face. Bottomless and empty, they drew him in like twin black holes. Jim looked so real, Seb thought maybe he could reach out and touch him. He wanted to stroke his fingers along Jim’s cheek, swipe his thumb across that plush bottom lip. He gripped the edges of the tub instead. He was afraid of stabbing his hand through air (and maybe more than a little afraid of connecting with flesh).

“What are you doing here?” He was just begging to be tossed into a rubber room—talking to ghosts like this—but Seb didn’t care. He’d never find out what this was about if he didn’t at least ask.

“Who are you talking to?” Rich was shaking now, the water around them suddenly ice-cold. He swung his head from Seb to the end of the tub and back again, seeing nothing. “You’re scaring me.”

Jim cocked his head, a familiar tilt that spelled danger. Then he turned his black gaze on Rich.

Seb felt an icicle run down his spine as he wrapped Rich in a protective embrace. “Him? You’re mad about _this?”_

Richard choked out another inane question, and Seb hushed him. “Just be quiet.”

He was mad, more than mad. Jim had no right— “Well, fuck you. You lost the right to comment on my life when you put a bullet through your skull.”

Jim’s mouth twisted into a smile, and he shook his head.

“No, you prick! You don’t get to do this. You don’t run me anymore!”

“This isn’t funny. Let go.” Rich tugged himself out of Seb’s grasp.

“Wait! Don’t—”

It was too late. Rich was dripping on the tile, naked, and Jim was gone.

“Fuck.” Seb slammed his fist into the water, a messy tantrum Jim would have approved of.

“Yes, ‘fuck’. What the hell, Seb?” It was strange to hear Rich use that kind of language—tending, as he did, towards playground-safe profanity. He wrapped himself in a fluffy blue towel, standing there with knees knocking together … looking entirely too much like a frightened little boy. 

Seb ran his fingers through the icy water for some sign Jim had actually been there, but it was just a dull pool of bathwater. Ordinary. Entirely un-supernatural.

“Seb, come on. Please come back. You’re really scaring me.”

He looked up at Rich, studying the concerned pout, the wide puppy-dog eyes. He looked _nothing_ like Jim in this moment—hard to see how they were even related.

“Shit. Sorry.” He hopped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Rich stepped back, out of reach. Seb took a long, steady breath and tried to look as unthreatening as possible. “I’m okay. I promise.”

This time when Seb reached for him, Rich didn’t shy away. He leaned into the touch, letting Seb guide him to their room. Seb toweled him dry, running over arms and legs in soothing strokes.

“Here,” he said, leaning down to help Rich step into a pair of grey boxer briefs. Rich steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder, and Seb thought how nice it was to have someone who needed him. Someone who wanted him.

At least he _had_ wanted him. Maybe not so much anymore. Who wants a fucking crazy person in their bed? Okay, Seb was the wrong person to ask that question—apparently, he was very fond of crazy people in his bed.

He grabbed the first pair of pajama bottoms he saw in the drawer, wincing once he had them on. They were a novelty set Jim had bought him. Cartoon tigers stared up at him, smiling in mockery. It was too late to take them off; he didn’t want to do anything else that could be read as unusual. He could feel Rich’s eyes on him, and he knew nothing he did was going unnoticed now.

Just when he thought they might get through the rest of the night drama-free, Rich broke the silence. 

“Who were you talking to? It sounded like ...” He trailed off, unable or unwilling to say the name.

Seb had been waiting for the question, but that didn’t make the answer any easier. What the fuck was he supposed to say? 

_Oh, I was just having a chat with your dead brother. He’s made a couple visits now, and even though he can’t talk, I feel like we’re really getting somewhere. He’s pretty pissed about you, but I wouldn’t worry too much. I’m almost certain he can’t hurt you. There is, of course, a solid chance none of this is real and I’m going insane, but never mind that. Come to bed._

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled quickly. “I’m just tired. Long day. Think I took a hit to the head at the warehouse.”

It was barely evening—most people were sitting down to tea or getting dressed for a night out—but all Seb wanted was sleep. He felt bone-tired. So heavy, he could hardly move. He collapsed backwards onto the bed and sprawled halfway across it, legs dangling off the edge.

“But now? You’re okay now?” 

It was clear Rich knew his excuse was bullshit, but he wasn’t going to press. Thank God he was such a timid little mouse. He stepped between Seb’s open thighs, aching for reassurance. Seb reached up and tugged Rich on top of him. They made a clumsy pile and huffed out strained chords of laughter.

“I’m okay now,” Seb said against the top of his head. He stroked Rich’s back and planted kisses in his hair. “I need a little rest. I know it’s early, but …”

He didn’t want to beg, but he wanted Rich here. Needed him.

“I’ll stay.” Rich curled around him, and Seb felt something tight in his chest snap loose. Warm relief flooded him, and he closed his eyes.

If he thought the events in the bathroom were going to stick with him, wriggling in his thoughts like a freshly hatched pile of grubs, he was wrong. He had barely enough time to appreciate the lemony scent of Rich’s drugstore shampoo before he was nodding off.

When he woke, he could sense the world outside his window was heavy with fatigue. Taxis trolling deserted streets in search of fares, lovers wandering empty sidewalks in search of a bed—the somnambulant shuffling of London at night. It was dark outside, but his room was bright. Next to him, the table lamp glowed softly, and he squinted against the light. Rich was still in his arms, slung across him just as he had been when they’d passed out. He was still asleep, snoring softly.

Seb wasn’t sure what had woken him—maybe night noises, maybe his own overtaxed brain—until he turned his head and found the bloody apparition stretched out on the bed staring back at him. This time, he didn’t even flinch. Maybe he was getting the hang of this whole haunting thing.

“Twice in one day, huh?” he said in a low whisper. No need to wake Rich. “What are you getting out of this?”

Jim just carried on looking menacing and not answering any of Seb’s questions. Really, not much different from when he was alive.

“You know, I’m not giving him up just because you’re jealous. You had your chance. You blew it.”

Jim smiled at the unintended pun, and Seb rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, yes, gunshot humour. Fucking hilarious.”

Rich snorted and stirred. Seb shushed against his hair and pulled him closer. He relaxed against Seb’s chest and breathed out a heavy sigh.

“He’s warm, Jim,” he murmured, almost too quiet to be heard. “He’s here.”

Jim raised a brow and seemed to settle in—happy to listen. He always had liked giving people enough rope to hang themselves.

“He wants me. He needs me.” Seb hesitated, thinking the words through before releasing them. Once they were out, he couldn’t take them back. And he knew Jim, he knew what the man would think about this kind of sentiment.

“I want him, too. I need him, Jim. He’s alive and he’s here and I want him. You’re fucking dead, Jim. You’re dead.”

Jim laughed, a silent guffaw that shook through him. But the bed didn’t rock, and nothing he touched moved—just another reminder that Jim might be able to haunt him, but he couldn’t fucking _do_ anything.

“Go away, Jim. You’re dead.”

Jim turned on his side and propped his head on his hand, eager to listen to Seb’s arguments. Like he could comfortably stay here for the rest of his undead life. The bastard was immovable. He was relentless when determined, and once an idea had lodged in his head, he would see it through to the end. One need only check out the rust-coloured stain on the roof of St. Bart’s to understand that.

If you’d asked him this morning, Seb might have told you he could live with that—if it meant seeing his Jim again, he could live with this silent, gory phantom. But it wasn’t true. He could see that now. This Jim, this menacing reflection of the man, carried nothing that had inspired Seb’s love and devotion. This Jim would never plan another brilliant job. He’d never make Seb scream with want or turn into a drooling pile of need. He’d never whisper thoughts so dark, so demented, they stayed with Seb for weeks afterward and left him shivering in the night.

This Jim was lacking in so many things, but the main was this: he just wasn’t scary anymore.

“I don’t want you, Jim.” He took a breath, and squeezed Richard closer. He suddenly knew what might exorcise this ghost, if anything could. “This is boring, Jim. You’re fucking boring.”

Jim’s smile froze, and Seb felt shaky and uncertain. For a moment, it seemed like nothing else would happen—maybe Jim would be stuck in that shocked mask, unable to move away from rejection and into his afterlife.

Then Jim’s eyes began to widen, growing larger and larger until those empty black holes seemed to take up half of his head, seemed to be collapsing outward, an exploding black star. Seb scooted away, suddenly unsure if he’d done the right thing. Jim’s jaw was hanging open, mouth gaping in a silent scream. His lips were stretched and splitting at the corners. Blood flowed from his wounds, a gushing torrent that soaked his suit and splashed onto the bed. Seb saw wet splatters against the pale expanse of Rich’s back, but he couldn’t _feel_ anything.

A swirling wind tore through the room, and Rich began to groan. Jim was falling apart, pieces of him cracking off and tumbling to the floor in grotesque chunks. And still, there was the blood—gallons of blood, oceans of it painting the walls and floors, splashing against the ceiling, and soaking into the mattress. He and Rich were covered; they looked like a pair of lions who’d had too much fun with their dinner. Seb stroked down Rich’s dry skin to reassure himself, but the disparity between what he felt and what he saw left him more uncertain than ever.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he screamed against the howling cry of wind, but it didn’t stop. Jim was gone, the pieces of him disintegrated and absorbed into the bloody spray. Rich pressed his fingers into Seb’s skin, but his eyes were closed, and he moaned and twitched in his sleep—what a nightmare he must be having.

“Fuck you, Jim! You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve got parlour tricks and illusions. It’s not real, and you’re still fucking boring!”

A loud crack echoed through the room, and the light bulb shattered, showering glass all around. Everything was suddenly still. Dark. Seb could hear his heart in his ears and his own ragged gasping, but not much else.

“Jim?” He searched through the pitch for any sign of the ghost, but all was silent and calm.

Seb dropped his head onto the pillow, cataloguing things that were solid and real: Rich’s reassuring warmth, the softness of the bed underneath him, the sound of a car horn outside his window, even the shards of glass in his hair. He shook his head and laughed. It was over. Jim was gone.

Above him, Rich shifted. He was awake. Seb wondered if he’d remember anything from the past few minutes, or if he really had slept through it all. Rich lifted his head, eyes and teeth gleaming through the dark. He dug his nails into Seb’s arms, rocked his hips, and smiled.

_“I’ll show you boring.”_

 

 

 

…...

**Author's Note:**

> Goingbadly was the first person to ever draw something based on my fic. I'm so thrilled to have a chance to return the favor. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Thanks to darcysmom, marly580, and dreamnorweigen for their input.


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